Chapter 20. Before Maris
BEFORE: MARIS
Luca Matius was a fever that wouldn’t break.
He pressed me into the cool stone with his weight, hands dragging up my back and finding the hot skin beneath the folds of my chiton. He smelled like sun and sweat, his tunic streaked with the dust from the training grounds, a scent I found myself craving in the middle of the night.
The Third Feast had come and gone. In the weeks since Luca first kissed me at the beach, we’d carved out minutes and hours between his training, tribunals, and our noviceships, chancing a passing glance in the Forum or a brush of fingers on the street.
By the time we were alone, I was so hungry for him that I almost felt sick with wanting. Like a forge that burned too hot.
“I’m going to be late.” I broke the kiss, breathless, but Luca’s mouth just traveled down my throat.
We were tucked behind the colonnade that housed the Citadel’s water cisterns, hidden from the view of the street. Voices and the crack of cartwheels over stone drifted over the wall, where we were concealed in shadow.
“Let me come see you tonight.” Luca’s deep voice woke goose bumps on my skin.
“I can’t. We’re hosting the faction dinner.”
His hand slipped up and under my chiton, calloused fingers finding the curve of my hip bone. “Then come to me.”
“I can’t.” I laughed, placing my hands on his chest and pushing him away.
He relented, leaning into the wall beside me so that my shoulder touched his. My skin was flushed, my breaths coming too fast.
I still didn’t know what we were doing, and neither of us had raised the question out loud since that day at the sea.
What had started as a treacherous attraction to Magistrate Matius’ heir was quickly becoming more than that.
Luca wasn’t just beautiful, he was a thinker.
He liked to talk and debate. To spin ideas into the air as he fell asleep.
He dreamed—in an unspoiled, hopeful kind of way that could be born only in the Lower City.
My body was getting too used to him, it was true.
But much more terrifying than that was my growing admiration for his mind.
“Tomorrow,” I said, letting my face turn toward him. “Come see me tomorrow.”
A smile tilted his mouth before he leaned down and kissed the top of my bare shoulder. Then he slipped behind the colonnade, disappearing in the stream of people headed to the bridge.
I pressed my palms to my face, willing my pulse to slow before I did the same.
The plaza was growing more crowded by the minute, a hum rising in the air that was reminiscent of a feast day.
Hands floated up above the sea of people, clutching parchments that rippled in the wind.
It was a common sight when the Forum Record was released, a leaflet distributed the day after every tribunal.
When someone shoved one into my hands, I tucked it into my belt and pressed through the edge of the crowd.
I took the Citadel steps up from the plaza quickly, eyeing the sundial to check the time.
I was late. I gathered up the length of my chiton, leaving the din behind me as I crossed into the cool, shaded portico of the Citadel.
The congested arteries of the pillar-lined corridors were ones I’d had memorized for years now.
I hadn’t been allowed to step foot into the building until I was twelve years old, when the sons and daughters of Magistrates began their education in observing the Forum.
The first time I got lost in the marble passageways was also the last time.
My mother spent more hours in her chambers here than she did at home, and as a servant, Iola wasn’t permitted to cross the entrance without express permission.
It was only my second visit to the Citadel when she held my hand as we climbed the steps.
Then she let me slip into the portico alone.
It was the first time she’d had to let me go, and in many ways, I’d felt alone ever since.
I followed the corridors of the Tribunal Hall, the painted eyes of the Magistrates peering down at me from their portraits.
The gilded door of the Hall of Scribes had an ornate molding that edged the opening where the family names of the first scribes were carved into the stone.
Branches of cypress trees and curling waves of the sea framed a series of characters from the oldest stories of the gods.
I’d spent three years as a novice in the Illyrium, and I’d been sent to the Hall of Scribes many times.
Any scroll from the Citadel’s collection had to be formally requested from its library, and the management of the scrolls was closely stewarded, with a process for everything.
Everyone in the Citadel and beyond who requested a scroll from the library was required to show their medallion to be granted permission by the scribes themselves.
Even the Consul. And every scroll had to be returned by sundown.
The sound of the growing crowd outside drifted through the windows when I reached the propped-open doors. Beyond the swag of draped curtains was the desk of the signatory on duty—a novice named Drakon.
“Casperia.” He shot to his feet, giving me more respect than was necessary out of fear of my uncle.
Nej was known for his rigid instruction of his novices, but to everyone else in the Citadel, he was the picture of charm and wisdom. Drakon had been unfortunate enough to bear the brunt of my uncle’s ire regularly since he took the position.
I gave him a nod as I passed, headed for my uncle’s chamber.
I found him sitting on the corner of his desk, a stylus in his hand.
Behind him, a wall of shelves displayed his collection of rare stones, painted pottery, and gifts he’d received in his tenure as a scribe.
An ivory tusk and a rectangular box carved of black obsidian were among them.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, not bothering to look up. “My sister needs a favor.”
I dropped my hand and took the small message scroll from my belt, setting it at the center of the parchment he was reading. He blinked slowly before he picked it up.
“I’ve told you, Maris. It’s better that you are not seen so much here.”
“Tell that to Magistrate Casperia,” I muttered.
It was considered controversial for a scribe in his position to have any direct connection to a faction leader because it reflected poorly on the Consul, who was supposed to be impartial.
There were already rumors about Nej’s favor for my mother and her many schemes, but it didn’t matter how many times I reminded her, she still had me deliver her messages. It was as if she wanted people to talk.
With less than delicate hands, Nej opened the small scroll, eyes skipping over the words impatiently. He was about to argue when the hum of the chaos outside grew so distracting that he snapped his mouth shut, shooting an irritated glance at the window.
“What in the names of the gods is going on?” He stood, throwing back the curtain.
The light flooded in, making me flinch. I came to stand beside him as he eyed the river below. The number of people gathered on both sides of the bridge had multiplied now, with an enormous crowd growing in the courtyard of the Illyrium.
I set my hands on the ledge, leaning out. “What’s happening?”
Nej’s face twisted in confusion, his gaze sweeping from the plaza to the bridge. “I don’t know.”
Through the opening of the chamber door, I could see Drakon standing at his desk again, a leaflet in his hands. The crease in his brow as he read it over made me take a step toward him. It looked like the same one that was being circulated down in the plaza.
“The Forum Record,” I said, realizing what it was.
Nej’s head swung in my direction. “What?”
“What was in today’s Forum Record?”
“Nothing.” He set his hands on his hips. “It hasn’t gone out yet.”
I reached for the one I’d tucked into my chiton, unrolling the wrinkled pages before me.
It was missing the seal of Isara that always marked the distributed leaflets, and the type was crude enough to give away that it wasn’t printed in the catacombs of the Citadel.
In fact, it wasn’t a Forum Record at all.
Nej snatched it from my fingers before I was a few sentences in, his eyes jumping over the words. His expression was growing more panicked by the second.
“What?” I watched the blood slowly drain from his face.
Nej’s eyes lifted to meet mine, but the usual humor was gone from them now. He looked almost … afraid.
“That bastard!” My mother’s voice shot through the room, the door slamming behind her.
Her Magistrate’s robes were half tied, a copy of the leaflet clutched in her fist. Her blue eyes were crazed as she stalked across the study toward Nej.
“The man is mad, Nej.” She lifted the leaflet in the air, shaking it. “Tell me you didn’t know about this.”
I took the leaflet, frantically reading. It was a report on the harvest that had been brought in after the First Feast, the one that had been paraded through the city. It claimed that the spectacle was a farce. A performance to hide the truth—that there was no harvest.
Nej went to the cupboard in the wall, opening the long door and taking out his robes. “Gather the faction, Seren.”
“It’s not true,” I said, looking between them. “It can’t be true, can it?”
The fact that neither of them answered made my blood run cold.
“Drakon!” Nej knotted the ties of his robe before riffling through the parchments on his desk.
The novice appeared a moment later, peeking through the door with wide eyes. “Yes, sir?”
“Send a message to Magistrate Matius. Tell him to gather his faction. There will be a tribunal in an hour.”
Drakon ducked out with an obedient nod, but my mother was still gaping at Nej.
“Only the Consul can call for a tribunal,” she snapped.
“And that’s what he will do.” Nej forced a slow exhale.
There was more going on here than I could pick up from their half-spoken argument. My mother’s hatred for the Consul wasn’t a secret, not even from his scribe. But voicing accusations about Saturian under the roof of the Citadel was a death wish. Even my mother understood that.
“You will call in your faction and do whatever you can to minimize the damage.”
“You want me to find a way to help him save face? For this?” my mother scoffed. “This will be the end of him, Nej. He’s lost.”
“He can’t lose.” Nej’s voice flattened. “Not when we’re about to lose control of this city.”